Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

«Yeah, I like mine too.»

«So why do you think I drive a Maserati?»

«I haven't the foggiest.»

«I have this expense account I got to use up,» he said with a tilt of his eyebrow. «My manager keeps telling me, spend more, more. I'm never using it up fast enough. So I went and bought an expensive car. One high-priced auto­mobile can write off a big chunk of earnings. It makes every­body happy.»

Good grief. Didn't anyone have anything else on their mind but expense account deductions?

«I'm really hungry,» he said, running his hand through his hair. «I feel like a nice, thick steak. Are you up for some­thing like that?»

«Whatever you say.»

He gave directions to the driver, and we were off. Go­tanda looked at me and smiled. «Don't mean to get too per­sonal,» he said, «but since you were fixing a meal for yourself, I take it you're single.»

«Correct,» I said. «Married and divorced.» «Just like me,» he said. «Married and divorced. Paying alimony?» «Nope.» «Nothing?»

«Nothing. She didn't want a thing.» «You lucky bastard,» he said, grinning. «I don't pay alimony either, but the marriage broke me. I suppose you heard about my divorce?» «Vaguely.»

It'd been in all the magazines. His marriage four or five years ago to a well-known actress, then the divorce a couple years later. But as usual, who knew the real story? The rumor was that her family didn't like him—not so unusual a thing—and that she had this cordon of relatives who mus­cled in on every move she made, public and private. Gotan­da himself was more the spoiled, rich-kid type, used to the luxury of living life at his own pace. So there was bound to be trouble.

«Funny, isn't it? One minute we're doing a science experi­ment together, the next thing you know we're both divorced. Funny,», he forced a smile, then lightly rubbed his eyes. «Tell me, how come you split up?»

«Simple. One day the wife up and walked out on me.»

«Just like that?»

«Yup. No warning, not a word. I didn't have a clue. I thought she'd gone out to do the shopping or something, but she never came back. I made dinner and I waited. Morning came and still no sign of her. A week passed, a month passed. Then the divorce papers came.»

He took it all in, then he sighed. «I hope you don't mind my saying this, but I think you got a better deal than I did.»

«How's that?»

«With me, the wife didn't leave. I got thrown out. Liter­ally. One day, I was thrown out on my ear.» He gazed out through the silvered glass. «And the worst part about it was, she planned the whole thing. Every last detail. When I wasn't around, she changed the registration on everything we owned. I never noticed a thing. I trusted her. I handed everything over to her accountant—my official seal, my IDs, stock certificates, bankbooks, everything. They said they needed it for taxes. Great, I'm terrible at that stuff, so I was happy for them to do it. But the guy was working for her relatives. And before I knew it, there wasn't a thing to my name left. They stripped me to the bone. And then they kicked me out. A real education, let me tell you,» he forced another smile. «Made me grow up real fast.»

«Everybody has to grow up.»

«You're right there. I used to think the years would go by in order, that you get older one year at a time,» said Gotanda, peering into my face. «But it's not like that. It hap­pens overnight.»

The place we went to was a steak house in a remote cor­ner of Roppongi. Expensive, by the looks of it. When the Mercedes pulled up to the door, the doorman and maitre d' and staff came out to greet us. We were conducted to a secluded booth in the back. Everyone in the place was very fashionable, but Gotanda in his corduroys and jogging shoes was the sharpest dresser in the place. His nonchalance oozed style. As soon as we entered, everyone's eyes were on him. They stared for two seconds, no longer, as if it were some unwritten law of etiquette.

We sat down and ordered two scotch-and-waters. Gotanda proposed the toast: «To our ex-wives.»

«I know it sounds stupid,» he said, «but I still love her. She treated me like dirt and I still love her. I can't get her out of my mind, I can't get interested in other women.»

I stared at the extremely elegant ice cubes in the crystal

tumblers.

«What about you?» he asked.

«You mean how do I feel about my ex-wife? I don't know. I didn't want her to go. But she left all right. Who was in the wrong? I don't know. It sure doesn't matter now. I'm used to it, though I suppose 'used to it' is about the best I

can do.»

«I hope I'm not touching a sore spot?»

«No, not really,» I said. «Fact is fact, you can't run away from it. You can't really call it painful, you don't really know what to call it.»

He snapped his fingers. «That's true. You really can't pin it down. It's like the gravity's changed on you. You can't even call what you're feeling pain.»

The waiter came and took our orders. Steak, both medium rare, and salad and another round of scotch.

«Oh yeah, wasn't there something you wanted to talk to me about? Let's get that out of the way first. Before we get too plastered.»

«It's kind of a strange story,» I began.

He floated me one of his pleasant smiles. Well-practiced, but still, without malice.

«I like strange stories,» he said.

«Well, here goes. The other day I went to see the movie you have out.»

« Unrequited ?» he said with a grimace, his voice dropping to a whisper. «Terrible picture. Terrible director, terrible script, it's always like that. Everybody involved with the thing wishes they could forget it.»

«I saw it four times,» I said.

His eyes widened, as if he were peering into the cosmic void. «I'd be willing to bet there's not a human alive in this galaxy who's sat through that movie four times.»

«Someone I knew was in the film,» I said. «Besides you, I mean.»

Gotanda pressed an index finger into his temple and squinted. «Who?»

«The girl you were sleeping with on the Sunday morning.»

He took a sip of whiskey. «Oh yeah,» he said, nodding. «Kiki.»

«Kiki,» I repeated.

Kiki . Kiki . Kiki .

«That was the name I know her by anyway. In the film world, she went by Kiki. No last name, that was it.»

Which is how, finally, I learned her name.

«And can you get in touch with her?» I asked.

«Afraid not.»

«Why not?»

«Let's take it from the top. First of all, Kiki wasn't a pro­fessional actress. Actors, famous or not, all belong to some production company. So you get in contact with them through their agents. Most of them live next to their phones, waiting for the call, you know. But not Kiki. She didn't belong to any production group I knew of. She just hap­pened through that one time.»

«Then how did she land that part?»

«I recommended her,» he said dryly. «I asked her if she wanted to be in a picture, and I introduced her to the direc­tor.»

«What for?»

He took a sip of whiskey. «The girl had—maybe not tal­ent exactly—she had the makings of ... presence. She had something . She wasn't really beautiful. She wasn't a born actress. But you got the feeling that if she ever got on film, she could pull the whole frame into focus. And that's talent, you know. So I asked the director to put her in the picture. And she made that scene. Everyone thought she was great. I don't mean to brag, but that scene was the best thing in the movie. It was real. Didn't you think so?»

«Yeah, I did,» I had to agree. «Very real.»

«So I thought the girl would go into movies. She could've cut the ice. But then she disappeared. Vanished. Like smoke, like morning dew.»